


leave some morphine at my door

by physique



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-video game, this is not the way i wanted this to turn out but josh deserves a nice cute ending so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/physique/pseuds/physique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn’t really dwell on the doctor’s words too much even though they repeat in her head like a broken record: <i>The Washington boy’s gonna be okay.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of explosions and rescue missions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just a two-part word vomit disaster because I'm in Sam/Josh hell so enjoy.

The Washington lodge is bathed in a flurry of snow and flames when the rescue helicopter arrives, making its quick descent to Blackwood Pines, the sound of its rotating blades persistently knocking on her eardrums and the sheer force of the wind nearly knocking her off balance.

            “They’re here,” she hears Emily sob, mouth covered with trembling and wounded hands. “Oh, god, they’re actually here a-and we’re safe and they’re here—”

            _They’re here_.

            “J-Jess?” Mike calls out, tone unsure yet hopeful as he stumbles to his feet, eyes squinted at the two approaching figures who are covered in multiple cuts and bruises, whose skins are smeared with dirt and tears and blood just like the rest of them. “Matt? Jess… Jess!”

            _We’re safe_.

            “Help us!” Chris cries beside a hysterical Ashley. She’s cradled in his chest like a porcelain doll – too fragile, on the brink of shattering into a million tiny fragments. “Hey, Ash? Ash, they’re here. We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers reassuringly, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead as she finally allows the dam to break, crying into Chris’ jacket with her hands balled up into fists and emotions stretched out too taut like a wire.

            _We’re gonna be okay_.

            “Sam?”

            _They’re here. We’re safe. We’re gonna be okay_.

            “Josh.”

            _Josh is here. Josh is safe. Josh is gonna be okay_.

            “I-I think she’s in a state of shock.” Emily kneels in front of her and cradles her chin in her cold, weathered palms. Her blue eyes look distant yet alarmed, as if she’s in a daze. “Sam? Can you hear me?”

            _He’s here. He’s safe. He’s gonna be okay_.

            “Where’s Josh?”

            Emily pulls away like she just got scorched and takes Matt’s outstretched hand to help her up, fighting the sob that’s lodged somewhere in her throat as she watches Sam shakily stand up and do a 360, searching for something – _someone_ – that’s not there. There’s another chopper in the air, hovering in circles like a hawk prowling the area for potential prey. The first one is parked a good distance away from the burning cottage with four medics and two police officers piling out of it.

            Sam is finding it extremely difficult to breathe as the medics approach, carrying a bunch of medical supplies that make her feel uneasy, unsafe. She looks around and sees Chris and Ashley with another medic, Matt with his arms protectively wrapped around Emily as one of the police officers usher them inside the helicopter, Jess on a stretcher with Mike’s fingers twined tightly but comfortably with hers. Everyone except him is here and accounted for, and a third chopper joins them when she bolts towards Mike, screaming his name like some kind of prayer, an answer to her question.

            Then she briefly remembers Mike arriving back to the lodge alone.

            _He’s not here_.

            Mike releases Jess’ fingers and catches Sam just in time before her knees buckle – in exhaustion, in fear, maybe both – then he watches her cry.

            _He’s not safe_.

            “Mike, we have to go back there!” Sam practically screams, clawing at his jacket, trying to grab onto something to keep her grounded to reality. “Please, please, _please_ , we have to find him. We have to find Josh.”

            “You know we can’t do that,” Mike replies, throat closing in, grabbing her shoulders and looking straight into her eyes. “You know we can’t go back there, Sam. You and I both know what those… those _things_ are capable of. We barely survived just a few minutes ago.” He doesn’t give her the chance to protest before adding, “He’s… He’s probably already dead.”

            _He’s not gonna be okay_.

            “I’m not leaving,” Sam exclaims, swatting his hands away, drying her tears with the filthy sleeve of her shirt. “If you won’t come with me, fine. I’ll do it alone.”

            “Are you fucking crazy?” Mike pulls her aside, anger and sadness and frustration pumping through his veins like some kind of fucked up adrenaline shot. “Samantha, listen to me,” he instructs, his brown eyes boring into her cerulean ones with the intensity of a thousand megawatt lightbulb. “Josh is dead, okay? He’s dead and going back there would be _suicide_. For fuck’s sake, Sammy, we’re _finally_ safe. I’m sure Josh would’ve liked it if you made it out of here alive.”

            “Don’t tell me what Josh would or wouldn’t have liked, _Michael_!” she spits venomously, tears welling up in her eyes again. She’s shaking in a combination of anger and exhaustion, trying her hardest to stay on her feet. “I can’t believe you have the fucking _nerve_ to say that. You know what he would’ve liked? His sisters _alive_ , not dead or turned into a fucking Wendigo, so I’m _not_ leaving until we find Josh.”

            Mike doesn’t say anything after that, only shakes his head ever so slightly to tell her _no, we’re not going back there to rescue a fucking corpse_.

            He wishes they can, though, because the hatred and helplessness that ignite in Sam’s eyes a second later are enough to push the last piece of his resilience off a cliff, enough to reveal a fissure on his brittle façade of bravery and strength and some other pretentious bullshit he picked up along the way.

            He doesn’t notice Sam breaking down by his feet until Chris comes to her aid, doesn’t notice the tears streaming down his face until he tastes the saltiness on his chapped and bleeding lips. He’s tired and scared and guilty and _oh, god, I should’ve done something, should’ve saved him, should’ve distracted the Wendigo and he would’ve been here with us and oh god oh god oh god_. It’s a vicious, never-ending cycle of what ifs and regrets and guilt and he could’ve saved him, could’ve saved the boy who lost his twin sisters in one night because of a stupid prank that wasn’t funny at all if he wasn’t so selfish and concerned with saving his own skin.

            He’s on his knees and his bloody palms are making crimson imprints on the snow and he’s crying, sobbing, weeping.

            “Mike.” He glances up and, with bleary eyes, sees Chris trying to comfort Sam. “Mike, what happened back there? When you guys found Josh.”

            “I-I don’t know,” Mike stammers. “We found him and he was talking to himself, like he was hallucinating or some shit, and he–he told me not to hit him and, god, Chris, we were crossing this pool and we were almost there, _so fucking close_ , and this fucking Wendigo came outta nowhere and t-took him and, _fuck_ , I should’ve saved him, I should’ve killed that fucking monster, I should—”

            Sam emits a pained shriek so loud, the nearest medic drops the roll of gauze he’s methodologically wrapping around Ashley’s injured hand. “I’m not leaving!” she protests into Chris’ chest. An officer comes rushing towards them, looking alarmed. “I’m not leaving until we find Josh!”

            “Josh? As in Joshua Washington?” the female officer queries. The name tag stitched onto her uniform says _H.L. SHEPPARD_. “He’s here? Where is he?”

            “In the mines,” replies Mike, sobering up a little bit. “He’s down there in the mines with some Wendigos and he’s probably dead and, _fuck_ , it’s all my fault.”

            “A Wendi-what? And how’d he get down to the mines? That place has been closed for years,” Officer Sheppard questions, sparing a glance at Chris who’s seemingly the only one who isn’t crying or thrashing around or stunned in shock – the only one who’s got his shit together.

            “I-I don’t know. I wasn’t with them when they found Josh but I—”

            “You have to save him.” Sam clambers out of Chris’ grasp and practically crawls towards the officer. “He’s down there. Josh is down there in the mines and he’s alive and he’s waiting and please,” she cries, “I am _begging_ you, please go down there and save Josh. He’s the only one Mr. and Mrs. Washington have left.”

            _He’s the only one I have left_.

            The look Officer Sheppard gives her is one tethering between pity and doubt, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they’re not going down to the mines and they’re not going to save Josh and they’re not going to rescue the only one the Washingtons have left. They lost Hannah and Beth and now they’re losing Josh and Sam can’t take the crippling fear and guilt that have embedded themselves into her soul, permanently etched onto the back of her eyelids. She can already tell his desperate please and distant gazes and terrified screams are going to haunt her dreams every single night for the rest of her life.

            The last thing Sam manages to say before she feels the sharp stab of a needle on her forearm is _he’s not here, he’s not safe, he’s not gonna be okay_ like a mantra, and it doesn’t take long for the sedatives to kick in as she collapses into Chris’ arms and hesitantly, unwillingly lets the darkness consume her for God knows how long.

* * *

“Well, fuck me.”

            Mike’s teeth chatter as he wades into the icy waters of the mines, a shotgun carefully slung over his right shoulder. “Goddamn, this shit’s cold,” he grits, flicking as much water as he can off his hands.

            “Keep it down,” Chris scolds, his eyes flitting from one spot to another as he tightens his grip on his gun, ignoring the wave of nausea that washes over him. “I get that Wendigos only hunt at night but we can’t risk it.” They’re halfway across the pool now, with aching bones and frozen limbs and sleep-deprived minds hindering them from making their journey quicker. “Besides,” he continues, looking over his shoulder and mentally taking note of all four officers and a medic in the water behind him, “I’ve heard enough of your screams to last me a lifetime, Munroe.”

            Mike rolls his eyes as he hoists himself out of the water, holding his arm out for Chris to take. He pulls him up and signals the officers to follow his lead, cocking his shotgun and slowly making his way deeper into the mines. The place smells of coal and wood and rotting flesh, and it’s almost enough to make him vomit right then and there.

            “We have twenty minutes to find your friend – no more, no less,” Officer Sheppard informs, keeping her weapon poised and ready to fire. “After that, we’re out of here.”

            “We’ll find him,” Chris guarantees as they round the corner. “We’ll find Josh, I know it. He’s around here somewhere.” _Alive_ , he wants to add but decides against it. He doesn’t want to jinx anything.

            “We better,” the officer with a scraggly beard adds. “I can’t imagine losing any of my kids, much less all of them. Can’t imagine what the Washingtons are going through right now.”

            “Tell me about it,” another one agrees. Mike tries to tune them out and focuses on the scraps of wood scattered on the ground instead. He angrily kicks a pebble away with the heel of his worn-out boots.

            “You okay?” Chris asks softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just… don’t pay attention to anything they’re saying, yeah? Let’s just focus on finding Josh so we can finally get out of this shithole.”

            Mike offers him a small, genuine smile that, in a way, makes both of them feel slightly better.

            The next fifteen minutes of searching descends into tense silence. The slightest creak or shift in the air often ends with guns pointed to random crevices and several warning shots aimed at nothing but thin air. Chris belatedly tells them not to shoot anywhere near the ceiling or any unstable-looking beams and columns when Sheppard’s bullet pierces through the torso of a headless corpse hanging on a hook from the ceiling.

            The screams that follow are shrill and almost deafening, and it takes Chris all his willpower not to laugh at the bearded officer who’s clinging onto Sheppard for dear life.

            “Proof enough for ya?” Mike smirks. It doesn’t stay on his face for too long at the sight of what’s left of the stranger with the flamethrower.

            “What the fuck happened down here?” Sheppard prods the cadaver with the barrel of her gun, her nose wrinkling in utter disgust at the putrid stench of decaying organs. “These Wendigos, what exactly are they?”

            “We already told you, they’re supernatural cannibals who will literally rip you apart piece by piece once they get their hands on you,” Chris repeats in exasperation. He looks at the stranger’s overalls and sighs in sadness and guilt. “And Hannah Washington turned into one of them.”

            Sheppard doesn’t get the chance to ask when or how Hannah Washington turned into a Wendigo because Mike and Chris start screaming like mad men, sprinting towards a heap of charred wood and blue overalls on the ground.

            “Move, move, move!” she instructs as she breezes past  her colleagues to keep up with the two boys. Her gun is loaded and ready to fire and her hands are trembling and she couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping her lips when the blond kid in glasses kneels down and, with a grunt, rolls the unconscious boy – unconscious or dead, she doesn’t know, but she decides to be optimistic and considers the former – in filthy overalls on his back.

            “Shit,” Mike hisses, watching Chris press two fingers on the befallen boy’s neck. He’s checking for a pulse. “Chris—”

            “Shh.” His eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, fingers trembling slightly as he tries so hard to feel the pulse, feel the throbbing underneath his fingertips that’ll indicate that maybe it’s not too late.

            Officer Sheppard doesn’t move, doesn’t even _dare_ to inhale as she holds her breath and watches two teenagers lose their minds over an unconscious boy who’s surrounded by burnt pieces of wood, who reeks of gasoline and smoke and dust, right arm profusely bleeding like a chunk’s been bitten clean off. She’s paralyzed on the spot, watches a medic in a blank shirt and cargo pants usher Chris and Mike out of the way as he starts performing CPR on his barely breathing body. There’s gauze and antiseptic on the ground and _one, two, three_ pumps to his chest.

            Chris doesn’t know how long the medic has been trying to resuscitate his best friend – he stopped counting after twelve seconds – but the tears come before he can even stop them and the last sliver of hope left in him is slowly beginning to dwindle away. His knees buckle and he latches onto Mike’s good shoulder for support, hoping and praying that they weren’t too late and his best friend is going to be fine and he’s going to come home with them and forget last night ever happened. They’re going to come over to each other’s houses over the weekend and play video games and just _forget, forget, forget_.

            A shrill, bloodcurdling screech echoes in the bowels of the cold, dark cavern and everyone except Chris and Mike freezes. The wind shifts, now clouded in something akin to terror and suffocation and every horrible thing imaginable. Chris cocks his gun and Mike points his right ahead, towards the shadow-filled corner where the sounds seems to be resonating from.

            “Go,” Chris commands in a tone so soft it’s barely audible, no longer looking helpless. There’s a certain fire that flickers across his eyes. “Get him out of here. _Now_.”

            No further questions are asked as Sheppard instructs her subordinates to lift him up, ignoring the ringing in her ears as shots are fired one after another in quick successions. The screeching gets louder and louder along with Mike’s crazed shouting and Chris’ indignant battle cries as they furiously shoot at someone, _something_ only they can see. Sheppard’s in the middle of pulling their unconscious rescuee out of the water when barrels start clanging onto the ground, clear liquid spilling out everywhere as gunshots continue to rattle the mines like some fucked up carnival music.

            “Shit, I’m out!” Chris yells over the noise, hurling his gun at the fanged monster that’s scaling the wall on all fours.

            “Go!” Mike fires another shot that hits the Wendigo square in the chest. “I’ve got enough bullets to hold it off. Just get everyone out of here!” The blond nods and sets off, tipping two more barrels of gas over before jumping into the pool to join the rest of the search and rescue party. With gritted teeth, Mike falls back and shoots at the Wendigo two more times. “Come on!” he jeers, fishing a lighter out of his pocket. “Is that all ya fuckin’ got, ya sack of shit!”

            Then he sets the place ablaze by throwing the tiny, rectangular object towards the thin veil of gasoline on the ground, blindly emptying the barrel of his shotgun and making a run for it five seconds later, ignoring the chill that seeps into his clothing, his weak knees, and the erratic pounding of his heart as the Wendigo in the mines slowly but surely burns to death.

            Chris pulls him up and practically drags him out the mines by the collar of his jacket, and the relief that washes over both of them at the realization that they are never, _ever_ setting foot into that godforsaken place is unbelievably liberating.

            They don’t speak. Don’t have the energy or emotional stability to utter a single word. They just hold on to each other, hobbling over to where the medic’s hunched over, attempting to keep their friend’s lungs breathing and heart beating in what seems like an eternity.

            And in a helicopter flying thousands of feet in the air lays Sam, completely dead to the world with the sedatives still infiltrating her bloodstream as the first of three helicopters flees from Mount Washington, unaware of the ineffective resuscitation and the cries of pain and grief and the almost-dead boy down below.

* * *

Sam wakes up to the smell of fresh linens and antiseptic twelve hours later.

            A kick of light-headedness makes her head pound as she blinks the grogginess away, trying to shove the last ounce of sleepiness and exhaustion out the door.

            “Sam?” _Matt_ , she thinks, but she can’t be too sure since the stampede in her head insists on getting louder and louder with each passing second. “Sammy, can you hear me?”

            “Hmm,” she hums. Her mouth is dry, lips chapped with cuts that sting like hell. She can practically hear every bone in her body scream in agony.

            She hears him laugh in relief. “Can, uh, can you sit up? Em’s on her way to call a doctor.”

            “Are you – I mean, is everyone, just – Matt, are you okay?”

            There’s a pause. It stretches for about four seconds before Matt clears his throat, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I’m fine, I guess,” he replies. The exhaustion in his tone is overwhelming. “Only got minor injuries that needed stitching and icing. Same goes for Em and Ash but, uh, they had to put Ashley to sleep since she couldn’t stop crying.” Sure enough, Ashley’s fast asleep on the bed to her immediate right, her blood-stained clothing replaced with a crisp hospital gown.

            “And Jess?” Her elbows dig into the mattress as she heaves herself up with assistance from Matt. She leans on the headboard with a groan, face crumpling in pain and, _fuck, why does my back hurt so bad_?

            “Stable,” he says. “They had to operate on her since she fractured her rib and foot. Said I did a good at assisting her back to the lodge – or what was left of it anyway – without rattling her ribcage any further. The broken bone would’ve punctured her lung.”

            “That’s…”

            “Yeah.”

            There’s another stretch of silence. It’s tense and sad and really fucking uncomfortable. Matt sighs, heads over to his bed – right across hers, sheets crumpled up, a folded and unused hospital gown by the foot of it – and picks up an unopened bottle of water on the bureau. He twists the cap open and hands the drink to Sam who takes it without hesitation. Grateful, she smiles at him before taking a swig.

            “W-when did we get here?” she inquires. There’s a total of six beds in the ward, three lined up against the wall on each side of the room with the same white sheets bathed in that familiar hospital scent. The bed to her left is undisturbed, the one to the right of Matt’s laden with bags upon bags of clothes – Em’s parents must’ve been here. “And where’s—”

            Chris and Mike.

            Her meltdown at Mount Washington suddenly replays in her mind – she remembers crying and begging and hating Michael Munroe for being a coward – and she freezes, various emotions crossing her tired features all at once. Anger, hurt, confusion, regret, guilt. Her thoughts start hurtling like a bullet train speeding towards a chasm at a hundred miles an hour, repeating the same sentence over and over again: _He’s not here, he’s not safe, he’s not gonna be okay, he’s not here he’s not safe he’s not gonna be okay not here not safe not gonna be okay_.

            Josh.

            “Fuck,” she grumbles, breath shuddering, head pulsating. She fingers the hospital bracelet bearing her name and age clasped around her left wrist, trying to steady her breathing and blinking the tears welling up in her eyes away. _Angry, hurt, confused, regretful, guilty_.

            “She’s over there.”

            Emily marches into the room with two doctors hot on her heels, bearing clipboards and stethoscopes and other medical paraphernalia Sam doesn’t care enough about to know what they’re called and used for. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know when she ceased to give a fuck as the doctors instruct her to lie back down, inhale and exhale slowly.

            She bites back a scream when they say she’ll have to stay in this dim, depressing ward for two more days for further observations. Knowing all of them have to stay for 48 more hours in the hospital does nothing to comfort her, not when she knows they’ll all be waking up screaming and thrashing around in cold sweat at some point in the night from a nightmare so vivid and horrific. Sam’s not looking forward to hearing Ashley’s shrieks or Emily’s sobs or Matt’s pillow-muffled cries.

            “…and that’s about it,” Dr. Koffman – as what the engraving in her gold name tag says – concludes, ticking off some things on her clipboard. “We’ll come back in six hours to check on you again. Your meal will be here in half an hour. In the meantime, get some rest, Samantha.”

            Sam nods, groaning as she shifts to her side and throws the covers over her heard, listening to the rhythmic tapping of footsteps on the tiled floor. She hears the door close, a long, deep sigh from Emily, a bed creaking under its occupant’s weight. Sleep comes fast and her eyes flutter close within seconds, and Sam doesn’t really dwell on the doctor’s words _too much_ even though they repeat in her head like a broken record: _The Washington boy’s gonna be okay_.


	2. of small talk and cardigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slingshots part two through your bedroom window* Have a little Chris & Matt to go with some Sam/Josh (sorta) fluff.

Two months, twenty-one days, seventeen hours.

            Sam’s breaths come in erratic, labored puffs as her feet pound against the treadmill. The heavy rock anthem blasting out of her earbuds at full volume cancels out the sounds of hard-hat construction from across the street and the frantic beating of her heart inside her ribcage. Outside her window she sees the sun shining, feels the cool wind blowing, and she internalizes the scene of normalcy and calmness and just… not fearing for her life in a creepy ski lodge with friends who are just as terrified as her.

            It’s been almost three months since the incident. Sam considers herself fully recovered – physically, at least, because she still wakes up crying in the middle of the night every once in a while. Everything’s sort of back to the status quo. For one thing, Matt and Emily are no longer together (Em wouldn’t stop bitching about how Matt abandoned her in the mines, Matt called her selfish and told her to go fuck herself). Mike and Jess decided to temporarily break things off between them to give each other time to heal; Jess had withdrawn from the semester but promised to return in the fall. Chris and Ash are, well, Chris and Ash. They’ve gotten even closer than before (Sam didn’t think it was possible for them to get any closer but she wasn’t going to question it). Sam thinks he should finally grow a pair and ask her out. Chris says he will when dark mines and Wendigos no longer plague their dreams every night.

            Her phone beeps, the screen lighting up with a text message from Matt. She slows her pace and presses the stop button on the machine, grabbing her towel and water bottle before unlocking her mobile.

            **(11.32) Matt:** _wanna join me and chris for lunch at burger king??_

            **(11.32) Sam:** _Burger King? Really guys? Very healthy_.

            **(11.33) Matt:** _it was the only place that wasn’t packed by the time we arrived at the mall okay so stop being picky and answer the question_

            She already has one foot inside the shower when she types “ _Give me 20 minutes!_ ” and hits send.

            Her phone buzzes again just when she’s about to put it down, and she almost drops it in surprise when a message that isn’t from Matt flashes on the screen.

            _i don’t know if this is really your new number and i know you hate me but if you read this and don’t despise me too much please come over. you don’t have to. you probably don’t want to. but if by some miracle you do then yeah. please come over because i really need somebody to talk to right now._

            Sam stands in the middle of her bathroom in her sweaty workout clothes and a certain tightness in her chest and she’s clutching her phone _so hard_ she thinks she’ll actually break it. A reply from Matt arrives and she doesn’t even bother opening it. She just stares at his message for a good minute, her eyes always flitting to _please come over_ like it’s some sort of complicated code she has to decipher. Her fingers start flying all over the keyboard – letter, space, period,  comma, backspace again – until she ends up deleting and rewriting then deleting the same two paragraphs over and over again. Then she decides to just trash her lame two-paragraph essay completely and settles for a one-liner instead.

            **(11.37) Sam:** _I’ll be there in an hour_.

            She doesn’t wait for his reply to come as she finally strips her sweaty clothes off and steps into the shower, pretending not to hear the ping of her phone and the message that says “ _thanks sammy_ ” that arrives at 11:37 AM from Josh Washington.

* * *

“This is a bad idea.”

            “What’re you talking about? It’s a _great_ idea!”

            “I wouldn’t call it great,” Matt argues, ignoring the glare Chris is aggressively aiming his way. “Don’t get me wrong, man, I know the Washingtons are loaded and they probably hired the most qualified psychiatrist in the country to, you know, fix Josh.” At this, Sam cringes, finding it unsettling how some people think a person can be _fixed_ like they’re a broken toy when they’re so much more than that. “But, like, I can’t shake off this feeling that we’re not supposed to be back in contact with him yet. I mean, it’s only been two months.”

            “So?”

            “So,” Matt continues, expelling a long and shaky breath. “Look, I know we all went through–through a lot. Back at the mountain. And we’re all still recovering from some serious shit and fighting personal battles. But compared to Josh, we had it easy.

            “And I know this isn’t about who had it worse or who almost died but he’s been through hell and back,” he continues. Chris silently sips on his drink from a bendy straw. “Losing Hannah and Beth last year… Finding out what really happened to them just a few days ago. That’s a lot to take in for someone who’s depressed. I’m surprised he hasn’t completely lost his marbles at this point. But what I’m saying is, it’ll take more than two months for Josh to recover from all of this, and I don’t think visiting him would be a good idea right now.”

            Sam sighs, elbow propped up on the table, fingers massaging her temple as Matt leans back in his chair and finishes his burger (or at least tries to; it’s gone cold and kind of soggy).

            Chris frowns. “So you’re saying Sam should just leave him hangin’ like that?” he challenges, tone accusatory, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Jesus, Matt, it’s bad enough Mike left him down at the mines to die—”

            “You know that’s not what happened, Chris,” Sam snaps. She grits her teeth, tries to calm herself down. “You know him and Josh would both be dead if Mike tried to play the hero card.”

            “Well, you certainly didn’t seem to mind dying at the expense of saving him,” Chris retaliates. Sam opens her mouth but quickly snaps it shut, obviously at a loss for words. “C’mon, Sammy, I’m his best friend and even I didn’t consider going back there to save him. Not until you did anyway.”

            “You were scared.”

            “And you weren’t?”

            She pauses, thoughtfully gnawing on her bottom lip. “I never said I wasn’t,” she grumbles. “God, Chris, I was fucking terrified. We all were.”

            “But you still had the guts to scour the mines to find him,” he rebuts, sliding his glasses up the slope of his nose. “You were screaming bloody murder out there and—”

            “Give it a rest, man,” interrupts Matt. Sam shoots him a grateful look from across the table. “We’re supposed to be putting all of this behind us, remember? Not recalling every single detail like it just happened yesterday.”

            It does feel like that for Sam on most days. She remembers everything that happened that night perfectly. How Chris managed to impress her with his shooting skills, meeting Jess at the cable car stop, Matt and Mike’s petty fights at the lodge, bailing on a spirit board session to take a nice, relaxing bath instead, Josh’s elaborate prank to get back at them for indirectly murdering his baby sisters. She remembers how scared she was and how lonely she felt when Chris returned to the lodge without Flamethrower Guy and Josh in sight. Discovering the truth about Beth and Hannah and Wendigos and everything in between, she remembers all of them.

            She remembers the melancholic look on Josh’s face down at the basement. The way his eyes dulled and his voice cracked when he talked about playing baseball with his mom and dad and twin sisters out on the lawn. The way the corner of his lips quirked into a lovely, boyish smile that she decided, right then and there, was her favorite.

            “Sam?”

            “Yeah?” She shakes her head and looks at Matt. “Sorry, say that again?”

            “I said, can you at least call Mr. or Mrs. Washington before heading down there? Just to make sure that was really Josh,” Matt suggests. Chris nods his head in agreement beside him.

            “I just know it’s him, okay? Don’t you guys trust me?” she defends. Of course she knows it’s Josh. Melinda Washington wouldn’t give her a fake number. “But I’ll call Mrs. Washington if it’ll help you guys sleep better tonight.” She won’t.

            “Good.” Chris sighs, picking up his burger but never taking a bite from it. “That’s–that’s good. Great. And, uh, say hi to him for me, I guess.”

            “Ditto,” Matt adds. He shovels a handful of curly fries into his mouth. “And tell him we don’t hate him or anything. And that we’re sorry. For, you know, all of this.”

            “Yeah,” she affirms. She nestles her now lukewarm beverage in her hands. “I’ll… Yeah.”

            They leave it at that. Sam listens to Chris talk about this cool project he has to do for his IT class and she congratulates Matt when he shyly informs them that he got accepted into his dream university with an athletic scholarship. She tells them enough about how she’s doing okay in school and how she can’t wait to get down to the nitty gritty details of being an environmentalist. They talk about rock climbing and the latest Apple vs. Android debate and scheduling a movie night at Ashley’s next week. They talk about everything and nothing and whatever the hell’s in between all at once, and Sam can’t help but smile to herself when she realizes they’re getting better and better at this whole recovery thing with each passing day.

* * *

They part ways half an hour later.

            Chris says he’s going to visit Ashley and Matt has to go meet up with his parents at one of the mall’s hardware stores. She assures them a billion times that she’s going to give Mrs. Washington a call – “Yes, I’ll ring her up, I promise. Trust me, I’ll call her. Jesus Christ, Chris, leave me alone and just go.” – before stepping inside her car and waiting for his vehicle to disappear out the parking lot. She doesn’t call Mrs. Washington.

            Sam rids herself of her cardigan as she makes her way to the Washingtons’ massive two-story estate, cursing the pathway from the road to the front door for being so damn long. She’s been here too many times to count, but the grandeur and luxuriousness of their property never cease to amaze her. The house itself stands tall and regal in the middle of a properly maintained lawn, lush green and teeming with an assortment of flowers and shrubs and the water fountain she took an unplanned swim in when a Frisbee game between her and the twins had gone horribly wrong three years back.

            But there’s a certain loneliness plaguing every corner of the place now, a hollowness that can’t be filled and a silence that can never be livened up by even the heaviest, happiest kind of music.

            She raps her knuckles on the massive oak double doors, rocking on the balls of her feet as she waits for it to crack open.

            Twenty-six seconds pass before the doors finally open with Mr. Washington behind it, his thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He’s in a suit, Sam notes, probably about to leave for work again. “Samantha?”

            “Hi, Mr. Washington,” she greets, a wry smile on her face. “Is, um, is Josh around?”

            The confusion on his face deepens. _Shit_ , Sam thinks. _Maybe I should’ve called Mrs. Washington_. “He’s in his room,” he answers, opening the door wider and gesturing for her to come in. “I’m not sure if he’s awake since he’s usually asleep but–but you still remember where his room is, right?”

            “Bob? Who’s at the door? Is it Sam?”

            Mrs. Washington cranes her neck over her husband’s shoulder and smiles, her blue-green eyes – the only physical attribute Josh inherited from her – looking hopeful and excited when she spots Sam. “Finally,” she exclaims, grabbing her by the arm as she tugs her inside. “He fell asleep waiting for you but I’ll go wake him up. In the meantime, make yourself at home, as always. Help yourself to anything.”

            “I’ll be waiting in the car,” Mr. Washington calls out to her as she bustles up the grand staircase. He turns to look at Sam, adjusting his navy blue pinstriped tie. “Did Josh—”

            “Yeah, he did. Text me, I mean. He wanted someone to talk to.”

            An awkward and heavy silence ensues. Mr. Washington clears his throat. He taps his foot on the wooden floor, trying to string the proper words to form a coherent sentence.

            Sam offers him a reassuring smile. “Look, Mr. Washington, I didn’t come here just because Josh asked me. I _wanted_ to. And–and if you think we hate him for whatever happened back at the lodge, we don’t. If anything, I’m surprised he doesn’t hate us for–for everything.”

            “None of you were at fault,” he chastises. It leaves a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth. “What happened to Hannah and Beth, there was nothing you could do about it.”

            There was, though. If only she was fast enough, she would’ve found Hannah in time. Her best friend wouldn’t have been a laughingstock in front of their friends and she wouldn’t have ran into a snow storm in the dead of night, crying in shame. Beth wouldn’t have ran after her and they wouldn’t have plummeted to their deaths and—

            “He’s awake.”

            Sam glances up and follows Mrs. Washington as she quickly bounds down the stairs, rummaging through her purse. “His nurse is in the guest room so if you need anything just press the buzzer above Josh’s bed and she’ll come right over.” She looks at her husband in amusement. “I thought you said you’ll be waiting in the car.”

            “Don’t take too long, darling,” he says, patting Sam’s shoulder before walking out the door. Mrs. Washington takes her bottom lip between her teeth, looking at Sam with worry and gratefulness etched across her timeless features. Hannah and Beth looked exactly like her.

            “I can’t thank you enough for this,” she says, taking Sam’s hands into hers. “He’s been holed up in his room for weeks and hasn’t seen a familiar face since the incident so don’t be too surprised if he gets too excited or cries or—”

            “I understand,” Sam says with a chuckle, ignoring the sudden tightness in her chest. Mrs. Washington flashes her one last thankful smile, winding her arms around her taller physique in an embrace before heading out and closing the door behind her.

            She’s alone again.

            Sam knows every inch of the Washington residence like the back of her hand, has every nook and cranny memorized in a mental map that’s tucked safely in her head, yet she’s never felt this lost in somewhere so familiar before. There’s no more Hannah to greet her when she opens the front door. Beth’s no longer blasting the latest pop punk track through the house’s rigged speakers, right in the comfort of her bedroom. Little details like Beth’s skateboard shoved under the coffee table or Hannah’s art supplies scattered on the nearby couch or one of Josh’s hoodies draped on a lamp – all gone like they never happened. She doesn’t think it’s fair, all these minute and insignificant details disappearing from her life forever because her best friends disappeared in the mountains a year ago.

            “Snap out of it,” she scolds herself, profusely shaking her head in an attempt to drive her current train of thoughts away. It doesn’t work, of course. Never does, never will. It’s another stupid thing she really doesn’t want to deal with but has to.

            So she clambers up the stairs slowly, quietly. She walks past Hannah and Beth’s rooms – both locked, will probably stay locked until the end of time – trying her hardest to keep the floorboards from creaking underneath her feet. Then she’s finally – _finally_ – standing in front of Josh’s door, eyes glued on the message scrawled in his messy handwriting on the tiny whiteboard.

 ** DO NOT DISTURB  
** **(UNLESS YOU’RE SAM)**

She laughs. It’s a cross between disbelief and amusement. She can’t quite believe he actually got out of bed just to write this, knowing there was a fifty-fifty chance she wasn’t even going to come.

            She did, though. She did and she doesn’t regret it. She’s had too many of them in just the span of a year and she doesn’t want to add more to her ever growing list of regrets.

            Wrapping her hand around the cold and weathered doorknob, she twists it and pushes the heavy door open, peeking inside to the sight of a rumpled bed with nobody keeping it warm.

            “Josh?” Panic begins to settle in her stomach. “I swear to God, if this is another of your stupid pranks,” she grumbles (more to herself than to Josh, wherever the hell he is), taking a cautious step inside. “Hey, Josh?”

            “Shit, fuck – _FUCK_ – nice going, Josh, can’t even shave without fucking up– ah, shit.”

            “Josh?” She throws her cardigan on his bed and rushes to the bathroom and _who the hell thought it was a good idea to leave him unattended around sharp objects_? “It’s Sam.”

            “Give me a sec!” he says. Sam pauses, her hand hovering over the bathroom doorknob. “I’ll–I’ll be out in a sec.”

            It’s weird hearing his voice after two months. It’s even weirder hearing him talk so… normal. Most of Sam’s nightmares are haunted by his screams – “You’re not real!” “You can’t tell me what to do!” “You’re dead! You’re not real. You’re dead and you can’t tell me what to do anymore!” – punctuated by vividly gruesome images of Hannah – or what’s left of her – tearing him apart like a present on Christmas morning.

            She starts crying.

            The bathroom door swings open and Josh appears, the smile on his face faltering when he sees her tear-streaked cheeks. And in the next second he’s hugging her, hugging her so damn tight she’s finding it a little difficult to breathe. Her face is buried in his chest and his chin is resting on her shoulder and he inhales the scent of her hair – lavender, he guesses. She’s sobbing. He’s telling her it’s going to be okay.

            “It’s okay.” He closes his eyes, feels her heart thrumming against his chest. “You’re okay. We’re gonna be okay, Sammy.”

            “I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice muffled. “I’m so, so sorry. For–for everything. I don’t hate you. I can _never_ hate you and, god, Josh, I’m sorry.”

            They stay like that for a while. How long exactly, Sam doesn’t know, but Josh is the first to pull away, wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumb. He looks better than expected, much to her surprise. She was expecting last year’s Josh: thin and sickly pale, deep-set eyes bloodshot and swollen in the aftermath of crying himself to sleep every night after pondering on all the what-ifs and should-haves he could’ve done to save his sisters. But he’s none of that as she looks at him properly for the first time in two long months.

            “I-I got your message,” she says between staggered breaths.

            “I didn’t think you’d come.” He lets out an awkward laugh. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, y’know. After all the shit I pulled in the lodge.”

            “You didn’t intend for anyone to get hurt.”

            “But I’m the one who brought all of you back to the mountain.” He sighs, averting her eyes. “If I didn’t devise this stupid prank then you’ll all be living your lives the way they were without me in the picture because I was on my way to a nuthouse anyway.”

            She winces. “Don’t say that.”

            “But it’s true,” he says bitterly. “Mom. She told me Dr. Hill already arranged accommodations for me in a mental institution. Well, she didn’t actually tell me. I overheard her conversation with dad before… before the anniversary.

            “That’s when I decided to do the shit I did at the lodge. I wanted to go out with a bang, you see. Prove to everyone that I was completely off my rocker since that’s what they all think anyway.” He sits on the floor at the foot of his bed, and Sam follows, leaving a good foot’s distance between them. “But I swear to you, Sammy, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just–I wanted them to feel what my sister felt, to be humiliated in front of the people you call friends. It was never my intention to–to hurt you guys.”

            He swallows thickly, allows Sam to bridge the gap between them by winding her arms around his shoulders. He rests his head on her shoulder, his eyes screwed shut, bottom lip between his gritted teeth. He really fucking hopes she believes him.

            “Chris told me everything, by the way,” he continues when she still doesn’t say anything. “About the Wendigos and burning the lodge and the reason why he and Mike went back to the mines to find me, and I just wanted to tell you that—”

            “I know,” she mumbles. She doesn’t need to hear it to know he means it. “I know.”

            He scoots closer. “Mom and I, we made a deal,” he tells her. “She told me she’d give me my phone back – or at least the new one she bought me since, you know, all our stuff burned along with the lodge. Anyway, she told me she’d give it back and I can invite someone over if I took my meds and ate my meals and didn’t mope around twenty-four-seven.” He fiddles with the drawstring of his sweatpants, breathing in and out slowly. “So I did. Not right away though, no. All I basically did on my first week back here was cry like a bitch.”

            Sam chuckles fondly. “We basically did the same thing, huh,” she comments, recalling the dampness that soaked her pillow every morning for two solid weeks.

            “Guess so.” He smiles. “Dr. Hill – my shrink – drops by twice a week to check up on me. Make sure I don’t stop taking my meds mid-course like I did before. He told my parents I was recovering faster than anticipated ‘cause I wasn’t skipping meals and bailing on my antidepressants.

            “I woke up with my phone on the bedside table three days ago,” he says. “I almost cried. Mom told me I could finally invite someone over and, like, it was too good to be true. Getting my phone back meant I was getting better. I-I was supposed to call Chris since I figured he didn’t hate me too much, but then I remembered how angry he was at me for punching Ash so I didn’t. Call him. I didn’t call him and I spent the next three hours just _staring_ at my phone, staring at your number and trying to figure out what the hell I should say to you. I didn’t know where to begin. I wasn’t even sure if Mom saved the right number.”

            She laughs, her fingers playing with the locks of hair above his neck, completely unaware of the electric buzz that’s crawling up and down his spine under her touch. “It’s just–It’s hard to _not_ assume you guys don’t hate me,” he drawls sleepily, stifling a yawn. “I’m pretty sure Em and Ash never wanna see me again. Mike looked just about ready to bash my head in when he thought I—” he swallows painfully “—killed Jess. Matt, we were never really close, but if he hates me then he has all the right. You and Chris…”

            “They don’t hate you,” she cuts in. “I haven’t talked to Mike in _weeks_ and the last time I saw him was at the hospital. Matt and Chris. I met up with them for lunch and they told me to tell you that they don’t hate you. And that they’re sorry.” Josh shifts to look at her, his eyebrows furrowed. “We’re all sorry, Josh. Really. We’re all at fault here. But if there’s one thing I’m sure of, you’re still our friend. And don’t you dare tell me other because I’ll–I’ll—”

            His lips are soft and warm on her cheek. “I know.”

            They spend the next couple of hours on his bed, their faces mere inches apart, breaths mingling between them as they talk and stare at each other in silence. Sam recounts all the great movies from the last two months that they have to watch (“I am _not_ watching _Magic Mike XXL_ with you.” “Oh, come on, Josh, it’ll be fun!” “You just wanna see Channing Tatum naked again which, for the record, is a new low for you since he looks like a swollen thumb.”). Josh tells her about his plans of voluntarily checking himself into the nuthouse (“Can’t you think of a better, friendlier term than nuthouse?” “Only thing that comes to mind is… I got nothin’.”) then going back to college to pursue a film degree again next year.

            He tells her he wants to get better and she tells him he will, and between stolen kisses and quick power naps and a heated debate on Josh’s perviness (“Why, yes, I _did_ enjoy watching you run around in just a towel.” “You’re so gross.”), Sam can’t think of anything that can possibly top this.

            She observes the steady rise and fall of his chest as another one of his naps deepens, his breath fanning on her face, eyelashes barely grazing his cheekbones. He’s got his arm latched around her waist and he pulls her closer, nuzzling his head to her neck with a satisfied grunt. The sun sets outside his window and the sky transitions from warm pink and orange hues to dark purple to pitch black.

            Sam stays for dinner. She doesn’t want to but she just can’t say no to Melinda and the hopeful glint in her eyes and, honestly, Sam blames it all on her annoyingly unsurmountable love for pasta. She knows she’s not going anywhere when Josh (the sneaky bastard) casually lets slip that they’ll be having carbonara for dinner. It’s painfully awkward at first, having to sit across Mr. and Mrs. Washington and trying to make small talk while pretending the two empty seats beside her don’t bother her at all. Josh comes to her rescue (he always does) and clumsily slides his plate across the table, evacuates his seat beside his mom and plops down on the one right next to Sam where Hannah used to sit.

            He’s straightforward when he tells them about his plans of checking himself into the psychiatric ward Dr. Hill had proposed. Everything he said to Sam, about wanting and needing to get better and going back to school when the time is right, he tells to his parents without a single ounce of hesitation, finding comfort in Sam’s fingers interlaced with his under the table.

            Only Josh finishes dinner with dry eyes after that.

            “Do you want me to bring Chris tomorrow?” Sam asks about an hour later when they’re back in his room.

            Josh yawns, sliding under the covers. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Only–only if he wants to, though.”

            “Trust me, he’d probably be here an hour earlier than me,” she snorts. There’s a look of confusion on Josh’s face. “Seriously, Josh—”

            “No, no, it’s just—” another yawn “—why is Chris such a sappy fuckin’ nerd?”

            He pats the space beside him as Sam laughs, kicking her shoes off and pulling his comforter up to her chin. They’re quiet this time, and it doesn’t take long for Josh to fall asleep. He’s out like a light in minutes and twelve seconds (yes, she counted).

            It’s a quarter to ten when she slowly pries his arm away from her waist (which takes a while since his arm’s pretty fucking heavy and _has Josh always been this muscular_?) and swings her feet off the bed, slipping her sneakers back on. She eyes the half-empty pill bottles and his phone on the bedside table, takes them as signs that he won’t be staying in the nuthouse for long and he’ll be back to school in time for the fall semester. His room is nice and quiet, calm and peaceful, and she bends down to briefly press her lips on his forehead before shutting the door as gently as possible behind her.

            She’s already halfway back home when she notices the absence of her cardigan around her shoulders, and she makes a mental note to retrieve it first thing in the morning tomorrow just when Josh feels the thick, wooly fabric under his fingertips.

            Josh doesn’t think he’s a perv. More like hopelessly romantic. Or whatever the hell you call some idiot who hugs a freakin’ cardigan close to his chest to compensate for its owner’s absence beside him in his too-large bed and _goddamn, why does she always smell like lavender and chocolate and everything good in this world_?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up at [ramimalecks](http://ramimalecks.tumblr.com) on Tumblr dot com if you wanna yell at me :^)


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